I always imagine I’ll return from a break full of ideas, eager to write again.
It never quite happens that way.
Coming back to the page feels awkward at first. The rhythm I’d built is gone. I hesitate longer before each sentence. I overthink the first line, then the second, then the whole thing. It’s strange how easily the act of creating can feel foreign after just a short time away.
But then I remember that the pause wasn’t wasted. Rest is still part of the rhythm. Maybe the hesitation is just the mind stretching, like a muscle that hasn’t been used for a few days. I can almost feel the stiffness give way to a small sense of curiosity — not excitement, exactly, but quiet readiness.
So I start where I am.
Sometimes that means writing a sentence that doesn’t go anywhere.
Sometimes it’s just describing what’s around me until something clicks.
The return never looks as graceful as I expect. But maybe that’s not the point.
Maybe the act of returning is what keeps the practice alive — the willingness to meet the work again, however uncertain it feels.
